My Life as a Homicidal Maniac
by Cybergirl
Summary: When an invisible being goes on a killing spree, Fawkes' friends suspect it's the old quicksilver kickin' in. But is it?


Disclaimer: I don't own Fawksie, Hobbsie or thier crew. They belong to the Sci-Fi Network. I do, however, own James and his family. If you would like to use them I'd be delighted but please ask first. Thanxs for not suing me!   
  
Prologue  
  
James Billington lived a normal job (a scientist), a normal family and basically a normal life. Although he was a genius at what he did, he considered himself average, just another guy. He had no enemies, his co-workers and neighbors all loved him, and he worked to improve the quality of life for many people through his work.   
  
He was not what you would call an obvious murder victim.   
  
But someone obviously hated him, or there would not have been a figure crouching outside his bedroom window one Sunday night, waiting for the best opportunity to enter- when James came to bed.   
  
His wife came into the bedroom first. An attractive blond with curved hips, she was considered beautiful to most people, especially in the lingerie she was currently wearing. But to the person outside of the window she was not important. Completely focused on his task, the figure continued to wait.   
  
The woman crawled into bed and shut the dim light from the bedside lamp off. The room was thrown into shadows, pulling the figure deeper into the blackness. He didn't mind, he was one with the darkness. It was like a part of him now, as he crept deeper and deeper into insanity.   
  
Hours passed with nothing happening. Then faintly the person crouching outside could make out the sound of someone coming down the hallway. Closer.   
  
James yawned, thoroughly ready to sleep and headed for his bedroom. He had taken longer tonight to get his two young children to bed, they had dawdled and whined, and his wife wasn't feeling well so he had told her to go on to bed early. By the time he had finally gotten Billy and Laura tucked in, he still had his presentation to finish for the morning, leaving him staggering around like a zombie from lack of sleep.   
  
He was so groggy that he didn't see the window slowly creak open as he climbed into bed. As he pulled the covers over his head, he didn't hear the slow, measured footsteps of someone coming across the floor.   
  
And he barely had time to react as the machete came down, severing his neck in an instant.   
  
Susan Billington felt something wet and warm across her face and was slowly driven from sleep. Her first thought was to think it was the dog, who occasionally got in and rested beside her on the bed, his big wet nose pressing against her face.   
  
"Spunky! Spunky!! Down boy! Who let you in here?" She said and opened her eyes to look around for the dog. He was not on her lap. Then what was on her face?   
  
Susan brought a hand up and wiped it across her face. She looked down at it. What was this red, stick sub… *Oh no* Susan thought. *It can't be…*   
  
She slowly brought her head around and screamed loud and long. *Blood* her mind unconsciously finished. There was her husband, his head completely cut off, lying beside him on the bed with its face forever caught in an expression of horror. The blood was everywhere, the white sheets now crimson. He was dead, her James was dead.   
  
Susan began to cry, to sob, looking around frantically for her husband's killer. The door was partially open and the murderer must have fled. *My God, he's gone. They'll never catch him…*   
  
Then something happened that Susan would have never thought possible. Her porcelian vase rose off the dresser, floating in midair. She turned white as a ghost, not believing what she was seeing, not having time to react as the vase came down, knocking her out. *But there's no one there…* She thought as everything faded to black.   
  
But there was someone there. A man was standing right in front of her, staring down at her still form. He turned slowly on his heel and left through the door, his tall, thin frame not silhouetted in the hallway mirror. He was brazen, confident. This was natural for him. His name was Darien. Darien Fawkes. 


End file.
